HoneyTrap
by RadarRun
Summary: Romance is never what it seems, especially when you're fighting for two equally-maniacal equally-faceless corporations in the middle of a Godot-esque wasteland.


9/13/19XX, 09:03, Dustbowl.  
"Who says I am even French?" said the Spy. He took a cigarette from his case, then thought for a second. He cleared his throat.  
"Who sez I'm even French?" this, flawlessly, in the rolling tones of the Sniper's hometown, near Canberra. "Who says I am even French?" said the Spy. "Lo sono italiano. _Ich bin Deutsch_. Soy espagnol. _Wo shi zhonguoren_."  
(A match flared and died, and he breathed in thoughtfully.)  
"And you... are a dead man."  
He kicked listlessly at the foot of the RED sniper, now twitching and gurgling his last on the earthen wooden floor of the hut.  
"But still... adieu."  
Life doesn't flash before your eyes. That's all the bit before. All he got to see were still-frames, fading into pencil line drawings- a hand, so sure. A smiling woman. The orange body of a wasp...

8/10/19XX, 18: 36, Dustbowl.  
He wiped sweat from his face. Tired to refocus. (Did he say tired? He meant tried.) The heat- and he would rather have eaten his rifle, piece by piece, without sauce, than admit it- was getting to him. He'd been holed up for three days now, staring at the desert through the mercilessly narrow scope of his prized rifle- the one he'd won $478 in a bet back in the Rusty Woolaroo with. Even the best-trained- the most merciless killers- can flag under the constant pressure that the Spy was laying down.  
The _heat_! My god, how could any man tolerate the heat?  
He shifted, refocused his sights, and tried to remember the bushman's rules (excluding the ones about skinning wallabies, which he was (relatively) sure didn't apply in this situation.) They go:  
Keep your back to a wall. Always.  
Or, keep your front to the enemy, dingbat. That also works.  
If you're going to climb over a fence, always take the cartridge out of the chamber, even if it's only a short hop. His vivid encounter with "Stumpy" Joe Madson back in Canberra had taught him that.  
It all comes down to blood, in the end. (Self-explanatory, that one.)  
And never- _ever_- let them get behind you.  
The words were still ringing in his ears even as he heard- no, _felt_- the body behind him. Through the rising red mist of terror, he could see the raised arm, posied* to strike. He turned, grabbing for a kukri that was agonizing inches, no, a lifetime away-  
A rather wilted daisy was being held up for his inspection. He eyed it coldly. Its military application seemed limited, at best.  
"_Cher_?" said a voice. The spy behind the daisy looked oddly mournful; it clearly didn't seem quite the perfect weapon he'd thought it to be.  
The sniper paused...  
And spun, letting out a yell of frustration, the kukri following through with a noise like a partridge in flight. In a whip-like movement, he had made a wild strike at the spy (not caring to see if it had landed), gone over the fence and away on his toes, yelling for back-up as he ran. If anybody had been listening (and really, it is difficult to ignore a screaming, pelting bushman in a bright red jerkin running pell-mell for the horizon) they would also have heard this, said between gulps for breath: )  
"Honestly! How- is a man- supposed- to get any work done- under these conditions!"

The spy had frozen, careful of moving. The kukri, he knew from painful experience, was razor-sharp, and he was loathe to move now in case the unthinkable had happened and some important bits were about to fall off. He froze- he could feel something coming loose.

With a sad little _flapf_ noise, the head of the daisy slid off, and fell (with a certain amount of relief) into the dirt below.  
The Spy sighed. Clearly some other, less dramatic plan was in order.  
He sat, kicking over a coffee mug as he did. This had been going on for days now. Every time he had tried to address the RED man-to-man, as it were, the sniper had done something silly with something sharp and then run away screaming. A healthy sense of vanity would not let the spy countenance that the other man did not, in fact, find him attractive- so it must be some other factor.  
Still- he brightened- there had been doubt in the man's eyes, before he ran. Doubt was good. Doubt was his stock-in-trade. It was working, but clearly, something more subtle was in order...  
(His first approach, he had to admit, had been rather direct. He had broken into the man's camper van disguised as a scout and sprawled on the bed in a state of distressing undress.  
"'Allo", he said happily, when the rangy shadow darkened the door.  
As he thoughtfully picked at his kukri wound the next day, he had begun carefully to rethink his strategy.)  
*Misspelling intentional, given what follows

9/12/19XX, 18:25, Dustbowl.  
"Bonsoir!" said the cheery voice. The RED figure on the balcony barely moved an inch.  
"Yep." said the sniper.  
"For you I have brought a gift!" said the RED spy happily. "Finest ammo, full to the brim with the healthful bullets you love so dearly!"  
"Yep."  
"A mere token, I assure you", said the Spy modestly. "A trifle."  
The mere trifle landed on the table with a resounding crash, nearly cracking the boards.  
"Yes", said the spy, "A gift. A small ritual presentation between friends. By crikey, yes. My word, so it is. Indeed."  
The sniper on the balcony seemed unmoved by this carefully-prepared demonstration of nonchalance.  
(The spy shot a subtle glance at his watch.)  
"Well?" came the languid voice from the edge. "Ammo. So what? Want me to get down and suck yer cock for ya?"  
The silence was roomy, and could accommodate many small embarrassments comfortably.  
"Well..." came the reply.  
The sniper froze. He had the sneaking suspicion his body were trying to reject his ears, and it seemed to be working. He turned and stood, slowly (With an almost-audible thump, blood had rushed to his face, making the effect curiously like the rising of an extremely embarrassed sun.)  
The RED spy was standing awkwardly, body half-turned to the door as though poised to run. "I just thought..." he said, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, "I just thought... well, you seem so lonely."  
With a sigh, he took off his balaclava, bringing into prominence a rather blue set of eyes and the forest of worried lines around them.  
"I too am lonely."  
His eyes were _very_ blue.  
"And if we are to be team mates..."  
The gap between them was closing, imperceptibly. Until...  
The RED sniper drew back, jar at the ready.  
"Nononononon! _Cherche-moi_! I am one of you! Of us! Believe me!" the spy drew back in horror. "See that I have given you all the ammo I have! I am virtually weaponless! If you were to die, would you not be dead? See my heart, she is on my sleeve! Above all, !" he cringed in absolute terror, last true victim of the fashion police.  
The Sniper raised an eyebrow, being (happily) one of those people blessed with no measurable sense of humour whatsoever.  
And laughed at the scene before him.  
In three strides he had crossed the room. and taken the RED's lapel between thumb and forefinger. "Well, if you didn't want the suit damaged," he whispered huskily to the Spy's ear, some long-banked embers roaring unexpectedly into life, "you shouldn't have come here looking the way you do, now should ya?" And with a sharp rip, he pulled the lapel of the jacket down and away. The spy flinched, eyes closed in relief and anticipation.  
Their kiss was... well, it was awkward, urgent, and lightly scented with sweat, for life is rarely so forgiving. However, it was heartfelt, and the sniper was prepared to dismiss the urgent little beeping sound at the edge of his hearing in order to concentrate on other, more pressing, interests. However, he could feel the other man's body tense under his hand as it sounded. He finally opened his eyes, catching sight (with a grin) of the scrap of cloth in his hand.

The scrap of Blue cloth...  
The BLU spy, now uncloaked, nervously stopped the chirping of the alarm on his watch. He knew, with a certain terrifying clarity, that it was only this brief moment of confusion that was keeping him alive.  
...What a time for his reserves of English to leave him...  
"It was the only way!" has said, flinging his hands up. He almost yelped, seeing the rage building slowly in the Sniper's eyes.  
"You would have killed me any other way! You ran! I ran! I- to admire from afar, is a painful thing, _cher, cher ami_..." he was babbling, he knew it, but drawing closer, and, more in desperation than anything else, threw himself back into the sniper's embrace.  
Despite valiant effort on the Spy's part, the RED man was thinking.  
Well, wasn't it true?  
Not about their various encounters throughout the month- the spy now working urgently at the buttons on his shirt had definitely not displayed hostile traits. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had come in here, deep into enemy territory, nearly unarmed, trying a play that would get him killed if it failed.  
And wasn't it true? Hadn't he been feeling (and here was the curse word)... lonely?  
Of course, it was expected to be part of the job. Any Sniper who didn't feel gut-achingly, wretchedly alone for 90% of the time was not doing his job properly. If you could fall into funny little habits, like naming your sidearm or storing bodily fluids in mason jars, so much the better. So really, wasn't it better that he-  
Just then the man in front of him had reached up for a kiss, and he was sweet, and he tasted like honey, and he could no longer really care about anything much else.

9/12/19XX, 23:16, Dustbowl.  
"What is it that you dream about, cher?"  
This to the Sniper, who was sprawled drowsily across his chest.  
The word was, at first, too sleepily mumbled to hear, but he caught it on the repeat.  
"'Wasps'?" the spy frowned. "You were supposed to say "I dream only of you", repulsive nomad."  
The sniper shrugged, too sated and happy to care. "That too."  
(He remembered- from his days in the outback- seeing a poor Astrakhan wasp struggling along the flat, baking rocks. It was struggling because it was overloaded with eggs- they bubbled in untidy, glistening piles from the insect's thorax, and the insect's back sagged with them, dragging along the rock. Holes had been punctured in the thorax and abdomen to accommodate them. Eventually, the nymphs would emerge, wriggling, and feast greedily on the dead body of the false mother. The eggs belonged to the Palm spider, who implanted them many months earlier, after killing the nest-mate. It was the closest he got to nightmares- and these would lessen, surely now that the world seemed so much brighter.)

9/13/19XX, 08:57, Dustbowl.  
"I havta go," said the Sniper, adjusting his dress, eyes already roaming the landscape, evaluating and judging, weighing options. "The war'll be starting again soon."  
"No..." the spy's vision was blurred, more asleep than otherwise. He dragged a knuckle across his eyes. "we had just gotten acquainted..."  
"If that's what you want to call it", the sniper had said in low, surly tones, rather more concerned by the distant soldier's reveille than the half-clothed man at his side.  
But the fallen face beside him softened his resolve a little. He drew the spy close, an arm around the waist.  
"Listen", he had said, eyes still on the distant horizon, "we'll meet again, ey? Tonight, even. After blackout. Roundabout eight o' clock, by the old water tower. I could-" (he winced suddenly) "well, no, I can't bring the van, it's in a right state, but I'm sure two guys with a healthy interest in firearms and access to a cloaking device could find something to do." He felt long-unused muscles break in his face as he grinned.  
"What do you say?"  
The reply was something low and sibilant; a language he wasn't familiar with.  
"What's that?" he said. "I don't speak French."  
The sniper winced again; whispered something unintelligible. He leaned suddenly against the wall, almost in a swoon; held a hand to the crown of his head, muttered something perplexed and guttural.  
Behind him, two eyes drew into slits. The spy, now dressed, eased the blade of the knife gently from between the other man's ribs. And drove down again. And again. And again.

SIX MONTHS EARLIER...  
3/20/19XX, 19:45, BLU headquarters.  
"He's one of the best. I'll warn you now. One of the best."  
_"That won't be a problem._" The click of a cigarette lighter. "_So am I_."  
"I mean to say you'll- ah, find it rather difficult to gain his trust by conventional means."  
Exhale. "_This is one game I know how to run, gentlemen. Leave it to me_."  
"All for the good of the team, then."  
"_Mais oui. All for the good of the team."_

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Yeah right "All for the good of the team." You just tried to kill a dude with GAY.  
THAT'S NOT NORMAL COMBAT TECHNIQUE.  
This story, basically, is two slices of angst around a big old slab of fluffy nonsense. It's a fluff sandwich! 8B  
But really, it's an experiment in structure, which I fail at. So basically, the original idea was:  
Five mins ago:  
Stabs.  
Six weeks ago:  
Dude I'm so in love with you.  
Six months ago:  
"Kill dudez, Spah"/ "certz, mentlegen". I hope that got across.  
Also written because you never see the spy doing enough spy-like stuff. Which is fair enough- the limitations of the game mechanics would make it difficult and tedious to do long drops, rob embassies, leave trays of mid-price chocolates on pillows for beautiful women, or any of the other deep cover ("Deep cover", Hurr hurr) stuff they do in Ian Fleming novels.  
ADD.: I'm told that this may not be common knowledge, so here goes: the "Honeytrap", I'm told, was a technique used by spies of the old school, and describes using an agent of the opposite gender (usually ) to seduce an enemy in order to wangle information from them or blackmail them. Whether or not this was actually used or merely created for bad writers like myself is, as ever, a source of debate. I do hope so. It would make spying that much more fun.

Translations:  
Lo sono italiano.- I'm Italian.  
Ich bin Deutsch.- I'm German.  
Soy espagnol.- I'm Spanish.  
Wo shi zhonguoren.- I'm Chinese.  
(A great thank you to y-gallants Zhugie and Hikarudark for help with this particular translation.)  
Adieu- "goodbye", literally a corruption of "with god." Considered more final than "Au revoir", which is (literally) "to see you again."  
Cher- He's not addressing Sniper as a mid-sixties pop singer, he's calling him the masculine form of something like "dear" or "love".  
Bonsoir!- Good evening! (Try it. It's a lovely word.)  
Cherche-moi!- literally "search me!" but colloquially translates as an emphatic "look at me!"  
Mais oui- seems paradoxical; is in fact an emphatic "yes". In this case, it can be implied to ring slightly false.

Written for Y-gallery, which may explain the copious amounts of man-lovin'.


End file.
